Frost
is on the fences,
Lyin’ white an’ thick;
Water’s
skimmin’ over
In the cattle crick.
Leaves
hev all be’n gathered
‘Neath the maple trees;
Signs
on the horizon,
Goin’ tur be a freeze!
Sun
went down all yeller,
Wind draws up the wold;
Forest
whips its fingers
Like ez o’ ‘twuz cold.
Stock
is lyin’ cosy,
Farmer takes his ease;
Pokes
the ruddy embers,
Chuckles, “let ‘er freeze.”
Oct.
18, ‘97
Pub.
in “The Patriot”,
For
Nov. 1898
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